


you keep me warm

by octobercafe



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, borderline excessive use of italics, vodka and feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 03:21:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,159
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526375
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/octobercafe/pseuds/octobercafe
Summary: Grantaire has never felt this drunk before—or, perhaps drunk is the wrong word. The alcohol hasn’t done anything to him yet, no, it’s Enjolras who’s corrupting his senses. Enjolras is always on his mind, but now he’s really here, he’s sitting on the deck beside him, he smells slightly floral, he’s so real. Enjolras is worse than any vodka.And he’s drunk, Grantaire reminds himself. He’s drunk. He’s drunk. He’s fucking drunk.





	you keep me warm

It’s weird, really, how they got into this situation. 

Enjolras had texted Grantaire earlier that day, which in itself was a rare occurrence, but the actual message was even weirder.

Grantaire can’t remember the exact contents of the text, just that it was from Enjolras, that it was needlessly eloquent, and that it was about getting _drunk_. To be specific, it was Enjolras eloquently informing Grantaire that he wished to get drunk and would like to do it with Grantaire.

Or something like that.

Of course, Grantaire had said yes—though his response _was_ significantly less wordy and grammatically-correct than Enjolras’. Really though, what else was he supposed to do? _Enjolras_ wanted to get drunk, which was bizarre enough already, but the fact that he wanted Grantaire there with him was almost too much for Grantaire’s mind to bear.

He tried not to overthink it. He’s failed.

It’s getting dark when Grantaire hears a knock on the door of the studio that he shares with Jehan—who, thankfully, isn’t home at the moment. Grantaire takes a deep breath, and prays that this evening will go well. Mediocre, even. He’ll settle for mediocre.

Grantaire opens the door to reveal Enjolras, who’s looking beautiful as always. He’s wearing a red hoodie, a few strands of his blond hair are tucked behind his ear, but there’s an out of character look to him that Grantaire can’t quite name. If he wasn’t Enjolras, Grantaire might even say that he looks _nervous_ . But he is Enjolras, and Enjolras does _not_ get nervous.

“What type of alcohol do you have?” Enjolras asks.

“Good evening to you as well!” Grantaire responds cheerily, and opens the door further. “Come on in.”

Enjolras follows, and closes the door behind him. “Sorry. I’ve never actually been drunk before.”

“And you want to be?” Grantaire leads the way up the stairs to the second floor, where a bottle of vodka, a jug of orange juice, two shot glasses, and a water bottle are waiting on the counter.

“Yes. I do.” Enjolras picks up one of the shot glasses, examining it. “I’ve given a great deal of thought to this.”  

“Glad to hear it.” Grantaire grabs the bottles, and heads toward the deck. “Any particular reason?”

“Um,” Enjolras says, and something’s wrong because Enjolras almost _never_ uses verbal fillers. “Not—not really. Just thought it was time. I’m in college.”

It’s obvious that there’s more to it than that, but Grantaire doesn’t know what to say. He settles on a belated chuckle as he steps outside. “Yeah, you are.”

The night is already growing colder, and Grantaire starts to think that maybe drinking inside would be better, but a sharp intake of breath from Enjolras stops him.

“The moon is so bright,” he says. “It’s nice out here.”

_Who am I to deny that_? Grantaire thinks, and nods. “Nice night for getting hammered.”

A hint of a smile appears on Enjolras face. “Where will we sit?”

The deck is noticeably absent of chairs. Grantaire’s not sure where they went—and if they had any to begin with—but neither Jehan nor him care enough about the significant chair shortage to take action.

“Down.” Grantaire closes the door, partially out of respect to the heating bill and partially because it feels more intimate this way, like it’s just him and Enjolras and the moon—and the vodka, which Grantaire is _still_ holding. He sits, crossing his legs, and Enjolras mirrors his actions.

The deck is definitely somewhat of a safety hazard. No railings, no chairs, splintery edges—it’s a fucking wonder that a drunk Grantaire or a high Jehan hasn’t fallen off yet.

Grantaire sets the bottles down beside him, and places two shot glasses between him and Enjolras. The light from inside combined with the moonlight is enough for Grantaire to pour the vodka without spilling any—quite a feat, considering that his hands appear to be shaking. He’s not drunk, not yet, it’s probably just the fact that he’s so close to Enjolras and that Enjolras is looking at him curiously, not angrily, not like they’re about to argue.

“And you’re sure about this?” Grantaire asks.

Enjolras picks up the glass in front of him, and stares at its contents. “I am. This looks like water.”

“Ah, don’t worry.” Grantaire closes the bottle, and raises his glass. “It’s not. Vodka and water do bear a remarkable similarity though, don’t they? Pretty easy to switch one for the other—put vodka in a water bottle and you’ll have an excellent tool for surviving family get-togethers.”

The hint of a smile is back, only this time it’s less of a hint and more of a smile. Enjolras is _smiling_ , and it’s over pretty soon because Grantaire’s joke wasn’t really that funny, but it leaves Grantaire with a warm feeling in his heart. Damn. _Damn._

“Do I give a toast?” Enjolras asks, waving the glass slightly.

“Only if you’d like.” Grantaire hopes that he will. He’s never really understood toasts before shots—getting drunk doesn’t need to be a celebratory occasion, and for him it hardly ever is—but he’s curious to see what Enjolras will say.

“Well,” Enjolras starts, and looks at Grantaire. “Thank you for this. Saying yes, I mean. Inviting me over. Sharing your vodka with me.”

It’s not the best of toasts, but Grantaire will drink to it anyway. He downs the contents of his glass easily, and sets it back on the floorboards. Looking up, he sees that Enjolras is still holding his, eyes fixed on Grantaire.

“I needed to see what to do,” Enjolras explains hastily, and takes a breath. Grantaire can almost see him counting down in his head.

_Three, two, one, and_ —

Enjolras throws his head back, and Grantaire finds himself staring at the way his throat works as he swallows the drink. Enjolras makes a face—it’s almost comical, really, just how disgusted he looks—and frowns slightly at the empty shot glass.

“You good?” Grantaire asks.

“Yeah, yeah.” Enjolras is quick to regain his composure. “That was gross.”

“Try this.” Grantaire hands him the orange juice, and Enjolras takes an eager swig of it.

“Thanks,” he says, and rubs his mouth with the sleeve of his hoodie. There’s just enough moonlight for Grantaire to notice that Enjolras’ lips are slightly glossy, perhaps a bit more red than usual.

Grantaire shakes his head slightly. He needs to get it together. “Don’t mention it.”

“How many shots does it take to get drunk?” Enjolras is nothing if not direct, and Grantaire smirks.

“Depends. If this is your first time, it shouldn’t take too many. Plus,” says Grantaire, reaching for the vodka bottle, “this is _good_ vodka. Strong stuff.”

“Expensive?” Enjolras examines the bottle.

“I’m borderline broke, Enjolras. Everything’s expensive to me.” Grantaire realizes a bit too late that his tone may seem more accusatory than he means. “But it’s worth it. Wouldn’t want your first time to be disappointing. Speaking of which, drink some water.”

“I had no idea so much liquid was involved in the process of getting drunk.” There’s a hint of a smile in Enjolras’ voice. “Will you be pulling out a thermos of tea next?”

Grantaire smiles back, though he doesn’t know if Enjolras can see it. “An intriguing idea, though Jehan is the one you’d want to ask for tea.” Grantaire hands Enjolras the water bottle, and Enjolras hands back the orange juice. “The water is to minimize your potential hangover. Ideally, you won’t even have one.”

“Ah.” Enjolras nods. “Hydration. Important.” His demeanor already appears more uninhibited.

_Really? One shot and he’s tipsy?_

Grantaire takes the water bottle from Enjolras once he’s had some, and takes a few sips before setting it down. “Would you like another shot?”

“You sound so formal right now.” Enjolras snorts. “Yes, I would very much like another shot. Please, do pour me another round. I’m quite invested in getting hammered.”

Grantaire blinks. He’s never, _never_ heard Enjolras speak like that. The alcohol is definitely having an effect on him. There’s a part of Grantaire, a dark part—the part that he tries to cover up with loud, depressing music and angsty paintings—that wants to let Enjolras get really drunk. Really, _really_ drunk. So drunk that he wouldn’t remember anything tomorrow, but he’d wake up sore and sick. Just to see what would happen.

Of course, he wouldn’t do that. He’d never do that. Enjolras trusts him enough to get drunk around him, and Grantaire isn’t going to betray that trust.

“Okay, okay,” Grantaire says. “Set down your glass then.”

Enjolras does just so, and Grantaire fills it with vodka. He pours some into his own as well—he’ll be damned if he lets Enjolras get drunk all alone, though by the looks of it, Enjolras is going to beat him to that state of inebriation no matter what.

“Cheers,” Enjolras raises his glass. “You’re a better person than you think you are.”

With that, he swallows the contents with a dramatic gulp, leaving Grantaire confused as to what he means. He downs his shot.

“I… what?” Grantaire asks. “I’m not a good person, Enjolras. You know that. Pretty sure everyone knows that. Look, right now I’m getting you drunk!”

“Which I _asked_ you to do,” Enjolras says, and even though Grantaire can tell that the alcohol is starting to further affect him, his voice is firm and clear. “You’re infuriating during club meetings, yes. You’re loud and depressing and you wax poetic about everything.”

“I—”

“Shut up, just shut up, and let me finish!” Enjolras is frustrated, clearly. Is he an angry drunk? Grantaire can’t tell yet, but he decides to concede. “You’re all of that, but you’re also more. You’re an excellent artist—you think I don’t see you drawing during meetings, but I do—and you’re dedicated to your friends. You’re smarter than you believe. You’re— _hic_ —you’re hot.”

“Um…” Grantaire’s brain is short-circuiting. “Hot?”

“Yes, yeah,” Enjolras nods seriously. “Attractive. Handsome.”

Grantaire doesn’t know what to do. He laughs. “Handsome? Enjolras, the vodka’s going to your head. I’m not handsome. Have you seen me?”

“I’m looking at you right now!” Enjolras insists. “And I say that you’re handsome.”

_Enjolras says that I’m handsome_ . Damn him, _damn him_ ! Really, what do you do when the guy that you’ve been in love with for _years_ tells you that he thinks that you’re handsome? What then? Do you—do you kiss him?

Grantaire is about to do just that when he remembers. _Enjolras is drunk_.

He sighs. He won’t kiss him. He won’t do anything that Enjolras will regret when he sobers up. He’s worked hard to be in this tentative friendship with Enjolras, and he’s determined not to fuck it up.

“You’re—you’re handsome too.” Grantaire swallows nervously, awkwardly. “Enjolras.”’

“I like it when you say my name, you know,” Enjolras says matter-of-factly. “Usually you call me weird nicknames. _Apollo_. I’m not the god of sun and music, Grantaire.”

“You could be,” Grantaire says.

“No,” Enjolras muses. “No, I can’t play the harp. Or sing. Not even in the shower, I don’t even sing in the shower.”

He laughs a little, and it’s soft, and it’s bubbly, and it’s so carefree that Grantaire wouldn’t have recognized it as Enjolras’ if he wasn’t sitting beside him. He’s close, so close, and he just mentioned being in the _shower_? Grantaire doesn’t want to think about Enjolras in a shower right now. Not when he’s sitting beside him. Not when this is the longest conversation they’ve had without arguing.

Grantaire has never felt this drunk before—or, perhaps drunk is the wrong word. The alcohol hasn’t done anything to him yet, no, it’s _Enjolras_ who’s corrupting his senses. Enjolras is always on his mind, but now he’s really here, he’s sitting on the deck beside him, he smells slightly floral, he’s so _real_. Enjolras is worse than any vodka.

_And he’s drunk_ , Grantaire reminds himself. _He’s drunk. He’s drunk. He’s fucking drunk._

“Grantaire?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire jolts out of his reverie.

“Yeah?”

“I’m cold.” Enjolras shivers. “Can I—mmm—can you hug me?”

_Oh no, oh no, oh no_ . Grantaire could deal with an angry drunk Enjolras. He could deal with a sad drunk Enjolras. He could even deal with a cheerful drunk Enjolras. But fuck, not an _affectionate_ drunk Enjolras

“‘Taire?” Enjolras is waiting for an answer. Enjolras is cold. Grantaire doesn’t think he could say no to Enjolras.

“We can always move inside, you know,” Grantaire responds, but he places the bottles and glasses on the floorboards of the deck so that he can scoot closer to Enjolras.

Enjolras either doesn’t hear him or simply chooses ignores him, and proceeds to cuddle up to Grantaire, nestling against him. Grantaire doesn’t know what to do with his body. Does he sling an arm around Enjolras’ shoulders? Does he pull him closer? Does he lean in and kiss him—no, _no_ , Grantaire will _not_ do that.

“You’re really bad at hugging people,” Enjolras notes.

_Fuck it_ , Grantaire thinks, and raises his arm to rest over Enjolras’ shoulders and draws him closer.

Enjolras sighs contentedly— _damn_ if that doesn’t do something to Grantaire’s heart; he could easily get drunk off of that sigh alone—and rests his head against Grantaire’s chest. “What’s wrong with your heart?”

“I—uh, what?” Grantaire responds nervously.

“It’s beating fast.” Enjolras sounds concerned, and this whole situation is so bizarre that Grantaire almost laughs. “Don’t tell Joly. He’ll diagnose you with… uh, something serious.”

“Oh yeah, I hate it when I get diagnosed with something serious. That’s really the worst disease I can think of,” Grantaire says, and he’s mocking Enjolras, but _not really_ , more of the flirting kind of teasing which is much _worse_.

“Shhh.” Enjolras sighs again, and yawns. “I think I’m drunk.”

“Didn’t take much vodka,” Grantaire remarks. “You’re handling the alcohol well, especially ‘cause it’s your first time.”

“Mmm yes, and what a good first time.” Is there… is there a hint of something suggestive in Enjolras’ voice, or is that just Grantaire’s imagination? “I’m glad I came to you to lose my drinking virginity.”

Grantaire swallows weakly. “Don’t mention it.”

“Your heart is going really fast.” Enjolras turns a little, to press his ear against Grantaire’s chest. “Thud thud thud thud thud thud thud. Like a drum.”

Grantaire desperately thinks of something to say, something that won’t make this weirder than it already is. It’s not that he _doesn’t_ want Enjolras as close to him as possible—he does, he does, he really wants to give in and pull Enjolras on top of his lap, kiss him, _kiss_ him.

_HE IS DRUNK_.

“You’re drunk.” It’s far from a decent response, but Enjolras doesn’t seem to care.

“Not too much,” Enjolras responds. “Just enough.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow, curiosity getting the best of him. “Enough?”

“Mhm,” Enjolras says, and for a moment it seems that he’s not going to elaborate any further, but then he swallows audibly, and Grantaire gets the distinct feeling that he’s _nervous_. “You think that I don’t like you.”

It’s not a question, it’s a statement, and it’s unfortunately _true_. “That thought does cross my mind quite a bit.”

“I don’t.” Enjolras shifts in his arms slightly.

“What?”

“Like you.” His voice has lowered a little, like Enjolras is preparing to tell a secret.

Well, it’s a pretty bad secret. Everyone knows that Enjolras doesn’t like Grantaire. Grantaire just doesn’t see why he has to bring it up right now.

Grantaire nods. “Ah.”

It’s quiet for a bit, and while Grantaire can practically feel the temperature dropping, he’s still not cold. Enjolras’ words burn—a little like so much of the shitty vodka Grantaire has poured down his throat in the course of his shitty life. It’s dumb, really, because he knows it. He knows that Enjolras doesn’t like him. Whatever compliments he’d given Grantaire in the course of the evening were just products of the alcohol.

“Love.” Enjolras’ voice has grown quiet, quieter than Grantaire has ever heard him speak before.

_Love. Very funny, Enjolras,_ Grantaire thinks. “Huh?”

“Don’t like you. I love you,” Enjolras sighs, and he sounds so _content_ , so _trusting_.

It’s not fair. This isn’t fair. Even though _fair_ is such a bullshit word, Grantaire can’t help but feel miserable. He doesn’t understand what’s happening—does he ever? Is Enjolras flirting with him? Is Enjolras trying to let him down easy? Was that what the compliments were for? Is Enjolras telling the truth?

Grantaire settles for the one fact he knows. “You’re drunk.”

“Doesn’t matter.” Enjolras moves, and at first Grantaire thinks he’s going to get up, but then he shifts even _closer_ , wraps his arms around Grantaire, nestles his head into the junction between Grantaire’s shoulder and neck. “I’m drunk and I love you. Tomorrow, I’ll be sober and I’ll still love you.”

There’s something in his voice that makes Grantaire want to believe. To _believe_ —hah, Grantaire’s not known for believing in anything. Except Enjolras. _Except Enjolras_. He believes in Enjolras, he wants to believe Enjolras’ words. God, he wants to believe them. And for Enjolras? He can try.

“Why tell me now?”

Enjolras laughs against him, but it’s short and bitter and nothing like the bubbly one from earlier. “I can give speeches in front of hundreds of people, you know. I know what to say then, but I didn’t know what to say to you to get you to see.”

“So you read about the inhibitory effects of alcohol and decided that getting drunk was the way to go?” Grantaire’s bemused, but things are beginning to make sense. In a chaotic way.

“Yeah.” Enjolras swallows. “I’ve never had to tell anyone this before. Never been this afraid of sharing my feelings with someone. But I’m glad I did. Even if you don’t feel the same way—”

Grantaire cuts him off. “I love you too.” He reaches a hand up, and runs it gently through Enjolras’ soft, soft hair. “God, Enjolras, I love you so fucking much. You’re—you’re the most beautiful person I’ve ever seen. You’re so passionate and smart and determined and you deserve the best things in the world.” _Not me_.

“Kiss me.” Enjolras looks up. “Grantaire, kiss me.”

It takes one-hundred percent of Grantaire’s willpower to not succumb to that invitation. No matter how sober Enjolras appears to be, the fact remains that he’s _not_.

“Not right now,” Grantaire responds. “Not while you’re drunk.”

Fortunately, Enjolras doesn’t complain. “Tomorrow?”

Grantaire smiles. “Yeah. Tomorrow.”

He’s a little afraid. He’s a little hopeful. He’s not drunk, not yet, and there’s a slight urge to drink more of the vodka—but he doesn’t. Instead, he reaches his other hand around to hug Enjolras closer to him.

“It’s getting cold,” Grantaire muses.

Enjolras shrugs, and Grantaire can feel him smile. “You keep me warm.”

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a vent about personal feelings but somehow turned into exr.


End file.
